


The Longest Silence

by SD_Ryan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Denial, Friendship, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SD_Ryan/pseuds/SD_Ryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds ways to deal with Sherlock's long sojourns to his Mind Palace until one visit proves too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Longest Silence

Sometimes, when Sherlock ventured to that lost kingdom he so humbly referred to as his Mind Palace, John would find him propped—unmoving—in the strangest of places. Upside down on the couch, feet balanced on the wall, impossibly long legs slanting into infinity. Or in the bathtub, fully clothed, eyes shut, fingers tented. Once, Sherlock sat cross-legged on the dining room table for twenty-four hours straight, unseeing and motionless. Baffled at first, and concerned for Sherlock’s well-being, John eventually came to see there was no point in trying to rouse his flatmate. The man would return to reality only when the current niggling problem had been worked out. And so John (mostly) left him to it.

When John was in a sullen mood, perhaps irritated at some latest insult, he ignored the stone figure in the room. He went about his business as though Sherlock were an inanimate object demanding no more attention than the kitchen table or a pile of laundry. He answered the phone, sorted the mail, enjoyed a cuppa—all in solitude.

When John was in a melancholy mood, missing the company of his friend, he strayed to the corner of the room or tucked himself behind the arch of a doorway, admiring the strange architecture of Sherlock’s face or his wild rumpus of hair. He did this surreptitiously, oddly electrified by the knowledge that even in this catatonic state, his brilliant friend was likely filing these details of his behavior away in some dusty corner of his mind. Unconsciously, the detective would track that creak of the floorboard or a hasty exhalation and know exactly what John was up to. John imagined the day Sherlock might bring it up, casually, in a cab or over breakfast—“I’m aware of how handsome I am, John; you needn’t hide your admiration”—and a pulse of brilliant terror ripped through him.

When John was in a giddy mood, or tipsy from one too many down at pub, he toyed with Sherlock, using him as a shoe rack or book shelf. He’d decorate that arrogant crown of hair with wildflowers nicked from the park or draw a ridiculously thin mustache above the sharp bow of his lips. Once, he took Mrs. Holmes’ Christmas present—a handmade teal scarf that went on for miles—and mummified Sherlock’s unmoving frame. John wrapped it round and round Sherlock like a knit boa constrictor, tucking it over shoulders, neck, and face, leaving a single slit for easy breathing. Then he took photos and posted them on his blog.

Sherlock emerged from these episodes mostly in good humor, sometimes in foul. But whatever mood he struck, there was always a penance to pay. The week’s supply of refrigerated body parts would subtly increase, or new, horrible-smelling experiments would make their presence known at two a.m. It was an amenable arrangement: Sherlock satisfied his need for revenge, and John comforted himself knowing the intentional tortures were no more unbearable than the unintentional.

After that business with Richard Brook, Sherlock seemed to need this particular brand of retreat more and more often. John noted his absence with increasing frequency. He’d call for Sherlock, and when he received no answer, he’d know the man was once again woolgathering in his Mind Palace, quiet and still somewhere in the flat—though John had yet to locate him. John would go about his day, plucking interesting stories from the paper to share or setting that second cup of tea, and consider what strange place he might find Sherlock in next. When the tea grew cold, he’d clear it away and wait for Sherlock to emerge ready to vindicate some poor sod or pin the crime on the proper killer.

He was jolted from his morning shower one bright spring day when he realized it had been weeks— _no, surely not weeks?_ —since he had last seen Sherlock. He swallowed hard, baffled by the sudden hammering of his heart. He stepped from the shower in a trance, not sparing a moment to cover or dry himself, and wandered room to room in search of his missing flatmate. With increasing desperation, he tore upstairs and down, examining every corner, every closet. No Sherlock. No stoic figure propped on the kitchen counter, no lovely long fingers steepled against lips, no pale face, closed eyes, beating heart.

He ended his search in Sherlock’s room, dripping and sucking in heavy breaths. Everything was as he had last seen it—bedclothes rumpled, books stacked to the ceiling, strange collections of—what?—animal, vegetable, mineral strewn about. But no Sherlock. His mind reeled with ugly truths, but he pushed them down, tucked them away as Sherlock would have some inconsequential bit of trivia about the solar system or social etiquette.

He looked ceiling to floor, imagining Sherlock had somehow managed to clamber on top of the wardrobe or wedge into the slip of space under the bed. There, coiled snake-like at the foot of the bed, was innocuous flash of color: the teal scarf. Nothing, really. Certainly nothing that should set him shivering with an incomprehensible sense of foreboding. John’s mouth tightened and trembled as he remembered the unauthorized photo shoot, the way Sherlock had emerged as if from a cocoon, foggy and confused. 

“John,” he had said as he unwrapped himself with calm dignity. “Your little pranks are growing tedious.”

His cool baritone tried to hide it, but John caught the flash of a smile in his eyes. 

John shook himself back to present. A bit of yarn, a fond memory. Didn’t mean a thing.

But it did. It did mean something. That was clear from the tremor making an unwelcome reappearance in his hand, the one he thought long gone. It made no sense; Sherlock had cured him of that. With ginger steps he crossed the room, feeling cool wood against bare feet. He was quiet now. So quiet even Sherlock, with his super-human senses, wouldn’t hear him. He could do anything he wanted—visit any humiliation, any dearly-desired affection—and his friend, his Sherlock, would be none the wiser. 

If only he could find him, John thought, he would sit down with his silent, still friend, and he would hold his hand. Just that. Just a sigh of warm-intention between mates. Just a comforting squeeze.

As he bent to pick up the abandoned scarf, John allowed a grain of truth to sneak in. A crack in the wall, a moment to grieve and rage and die inside all over again. And as he piled the scarf onto his shoulders, winding it around and around himself like hug, he knew the silence of the house was not the bristling kind, nor the sullen kind. Not the longing or even joyful kind, but an empty kind of silence. The silence of regret and battles lost. 

The silence of a fallen soldier.

A lost friend.

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by this beautiful artwork by wingceltis, and then turned it unbelievably angsty: http://wingceltis.tumblr.com/post/27034369953


End file.
